Dinner At Eight |
Issue 16
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The table is set with champagne being chilled.
White napkins are ironed and formed into bishop hats. Cutlery polished and set, glassware placed An intimate dinner for two awaits. Candles lit as eight pm draws near, The chandelier is dimmed, and my heart beats faster with nerves. My lips anticipate the touch of yours on mine. Time goes by, and I still wait; the clock is now approaching nine. Slung back in a chair with another glass of bourbon in hand. No call at all. The Sun now rises, and morning calls. The ice has all melted, and the candles have gone. I’m still slouching, and the bourbon, too, has gone. The dinner has burned, but at least the gas is off. Still no word. The dust has settled on all the dinnerware. Cobwebs strewn everywhere, Empty bottles on the floor, full case was delivered at the door. I’ve been waiting for the past five years, to feel the touch of love from your lips. All that lingers through these years, memories fade, yet you remain so clear. Cobwebs gather on the chairs; dust gets deeper everywhere. I see you lying there, the day you left me standing here. |
John Ganshaw began writing in 2023 and has published over 100 poems and essays, most recently in The Vault, The Well Street Journal, Men Matters, The Marbled Sigh, and Wayfarer. John writes in hopes that perhaps in some small way his words can bring truth, justice, and change to this fucked up world.
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